The Visitor
by Spacefille
Summary: Philippe receives a masked visitor while in the Bastille, one who wants to get a very VERY good look at him. Warnings for twincest bad!touch. Uncomfortable subject matter.


The Visitor

:

He had long since lost track of time, running out of space on the wall where he had attempted to count by putting nicks in the stone. He did not know it had been about a year since he was brought to this place, and he had just passed his 17th birthday. For him it seemed like ten years had passed. Perhaps twenty.

That evening, after he had been fed, (which was a tedious process of breaking bread in small enough pieces to slide through the mouth slit in his mask,) two guards and his keeper had come into his cell. He saw the basin held between them and expected them to bathe him as they had done a couple times previous when the stench became too much for even them to endure. Sure enough they approached him and placed the basin on the floor.

He shivered as they stripped him and began to wash his naked body with cold water and little concern for his enjoyment. They even washed his genitals, ignoring his bashful attempts to hide himself from sight. When they were done they did something they rarely did. They chained him to the floor at the back of the cell, on a chain that was so short it forced him to either sit or lay down upon the cold stone floor.

Philippe sat and waited, wondering what he had done to deserve to be chained. Occasionally he shivered as his well scrubbed skin dried. He kept his head down… there was no point in trying to free himself. The chains were far too strong and if he made too much noise wrestling with them the guard would come back and beat him.

If he was good enough perhaps they would release him in a day or so, allowing him the freedom to walk about his cell again.

He was in luck, or at least thought he would be, when a short hour or so later the door of his cell clanged open again and two figures entered the room. He raised his head to look at them from behind his mask.

These two were different from his guards and he regarded them with curiosity. One of them was covered in a cloak and as Philippe looked closer he could see that his head was covered with cloth, a wide opening where his eyes were so that the man could see out. The man's clothing were vibrant in color and by the way he held himself Philippe could tell he was important. The second man was small and scrawny with a hunched back and Philippe could see he carried a smaller wash basin with him. He also could see that the man was blind as his eyes were closed and the lids deformed. The blind man stood absolutely still, apparently awaiting orders from the masked man.

Philippe returned his attention to the richly clothed masked man and watched as the man stepped forward. As he approached he could see that the man carried something in his gloved hand. It was only when the man reached down and moved Philippe's head to the side that he realized what the man was doing.

For the first time in a year the mask was pulled away from his face and was placed on the ground. Philippe gasped and began to stammer out his gratitude when the gloved hand slapped his face, hard. His head jerked to the side and the side of his head hit the rock of the wall behind him. Slightly stunned, Philippe fell silent, his heart thudding in his chest with fear from the unexpected blow.

The masked man turned back to the blind servant. He grasped one of the arms of the servant and pushed him towards Philippe. "Clean his face," he ordered.

Philippe listened to the man's voice as he spoke. His voice sounded as if it belonged to a young man, but it was also hard and authoritative. Clearly he was a man of importance, no matter what his age was. He resolved to be very cautious around this man, as he probably could have him hurt, or worse, killed.

The blind man appeared to be more capable than he should be as a blind person, and Philippe supposed he must have been well trained. The servant placed the basin of water on the floor and in a few short touches had found Philippe's face. Soon a cloth was cleaning his skin and hair, and shortly after that a blade scraped the beginnings of a beard from his chin. As the blind man worked the other man paced the cell, appearing impatient.

When the servant stood again, basin in his hands, the masked man ordered him from the room.

That left just Philippe and his visitor in the room.

Philippe regarded him with open curiosity. Who was this stranger who divested him of his mask when all of the guards and visiting priests never did before, no matter how much he begged?

He dared to speak again. "Who are you?" he questioned.

"Quiet!" the man snapped back at him.

Philippe shut his mouth and lowered his head, fearful of being hit again.

The man made an angry noise and strode towards him. Philippe flinched and tensed for the blow. Instead of being hit again a gloved hand reached out and jerked his head back up. Philippe found himself staring into cold blue eyes. They studied him from behind the mask, and then the hand moved his head back and forth as he studied his face in detail.

Philippe wondered about that as he had often done before during the last year of captivity. He had occasionally seen his face in the still waters of ponds and puddles where he was raised and never thought he looked any different than the priest and elderly women that raised and educated him. He was younger than them of course, but that was the only difference that he had been able to see. When he was brought here and placed in iron, he had searched his mind for his memories of his own face, trying to think of what was different about his face compared with other men.

This man was not providing any answers either. Instead he removed a glove from one of his hands and ran finger tips over Philippe's face. Philippe tried to hold himself as still as possible as the man explored his features with his hand. He managed to stifle an exclamation of surprise as the man reached up and grasped locks of his hair suddenly, pulling his head over even further before twisting his entire body around and causing him to lay on his back.

Now the masked man stood over his prone body, and Philippe shivered again, feeling very exposed, not only by the cold stone but also by the weight of the man's gaze. He had to force himself to remain still as the masked man knelt beside him, one hand pressing against his chest as the ungloved hand continued to explore. He gulped on reflex as the hand moved against his throat.

It wasn't until the exploring hand continued down his chest and brushed against his ribs that Philippe reacted again. This didn't feel right, and he didn't want to continue to be touched, especially if the man continued downwards as he seemed he was doing. "Please, stop, I beg you..." his voice was cut off as the man raised his hand again to cover his mouth and nose, fingers digging in and stifling his air. Philippe's eyes widened. He tried to raise his hands to pull the man away but was quickly reminded that they were chained. He then tried to scream for help but of course could not do that very well either with the hand in the way. He tried to thrash his head but that led to the man grasping his throat with his other hand.

"Do not speak," the man hissed. "And I may spare your life."

Philippe went limp then, staring up at the man's eyes, the only part of him he could see, and saw that if his eyes were any indication he meant every word. Several heart beats past and Philippe began to convulse, his lungs burning, desperately needing air.

Then the man slowly lifted his hold from Philippe's face. When he could breathe again he gasped and coughed, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. The man seemed to glare at him. Phillip tried his best to quiet his breathing and keep his body as still as he could.

The man waited only a few short moments before he continued to touch him. He appeared to want to place his hands everywhere, running them over his ribs and down to his navel. The hands paused at the junction of his hips, thumbs of the gloved hand and ungloved hand both thumbing the spaces between his hips and groin simultaneously. Philippe's stomach churned and he had to fight even harder to remain still.

He did jerk a bit involuntarily as the gloved hand moved to fall against his privates. His breathing began to speed up again as the hand continued to explore, moving underneath to cup his balls.

This was horrible. He had never been touched like this before - deliberately - and it made his cheeks burn and his stomach roll. His eyes slid closed and twin tears broke free from his eyes. He wondered at that… he had believed he had cried every tear he could long before now. He gasped as the hand suddenly tightened on him. His eyes flew open only to meet the man's eyes as he studied him. The man's eyes narrowed.

Panicked, Philippe shut his eyes again and worked as hard as he could to continue to lay limply and not anger the man more. He fought to steady his now ragged breathing, especially when the hand relaxed and released him continued to explore, moving slightly upwards to now grasp and handle his flaccid organ. He bit back another plea, not willing to risk a hand at his throat again.

The man seemed to remain there for what seemed to be an extremely long time for Philippe. He could not help the gasp of relief when the man withdrew his hand, letting him go. With a flutter of robes he stood, and stared down at Philippe where he lay. Philippe could not hold his gaze, too ashamed to meet his eyes. He had never felt more imprisoned than he did now.

The man made it worse when he knelt down again and reached for the iron mask.

Philippe saw the move and could not stop himself. Even death would be preferable than going back in that horrible thing.

"Please," he begged. "Please do not make me wear that again—" the man ignored him and lifted it to place it over Philippe's face.

Philippe broke down. He tossed his head to the side, avoiding the mask. "Please!" he continued to beg.

The man grabbed him by the neck and shouted out for someone to come. The blind man reentered the cell. He quickly made his way to the masked man's side.

Philippe's vision was beginning to tunnel along with his desperation to remain out of the iron. He thrashed, tossing his head from side to side but it was for naught. The blind man held his head as the masked man finished pulling it on him. The lock closed with an awful click of finality. Philippe went limp, a small sob escaping him as he slumped back to the floor.

The man stood again studying him again for a long moment before giving a small shake of his head. He turned in a swirl of fabric and marched from the room, leaving Philippe to lay there in his misery, masked again, chained and unable to escape.

:


End file.
